The Measure of a Life
by OneDarkandStormyNight
Summary: Someone was holding him, and he didn't care if it was a half-lunatic who reeked of cheap shampoo, old incense, infallible bad luck, and not a little failure at life in general, because there was real sadness in Harry's dark eyes, and Bob was glad to die for something worthwhile this time around. Spoilers for What About Bob?


_Seriously. So many new fandoms in just a few weeks; I don't know what's going on with my imagination. _The Dresden Files _is really not that well-known at all as a show, and was cancelled after one season (as I'm sure any readers of this will know), but it came up under the _"Because you watched Merlin…"_ list on my Netflix and so I tried it out. Even though it wasn't majorly impressive as far as plots/secondary characters go, Harry and Bob (and the idea of the magic High Council) interested me enough to make me watch all the episodes. Harry and Bob were very fascinating (can't ever use that word without thinking of Spock now, thankssomuchmyunfortunatenewobsession) because a: Harry's behavior and general speech/movements actually reminded me of a nervous insane patient half the time but somehow managed to be charming, and b: Bob gave the impression of being a potential bad guy with a good heart, which to me is very cool (not to mention I always love the sarcastic characters, so I kind of fell in love with him after the first minute). Anyway, that's my summary of it. Hope I didn't bore.  
Major spoilers for _What About Bob?_ so if you recognize anything, that's why. Okay. I'm done talking now._

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**The Measure of a Life**

The first time he died, no one wept.

It had been a tragedy to rival the best of Shakespearean drama—and indeed, it was still legend in the place where it all had fallen apart. The tale of a great sorcerer's unquenchable love, the scheming friend who trapped him, the cold-blooded knight who destroyed him, the uncaring court who condemned him, and the woman who may or may not have betrayed him—it was all too beautiful and too sad to be true, and yet it was, even if he were the only person left to remember it. He never knew why Winifred played a part in the conspiracy against him, or even if she knew she did at all, because despite everything he did to save her she was dead before he could understand. He never even got the chance to see her beautiful green eyes again. (1)

The legend was only the rough shell of the truth. In reality, the story of Hrothbert of Bainbridge had so much depth, lies and secrets, that he himself couldn't be completely sure who were the guilty and who the innocent, even after a thousand years of pondering over it. He had been hated. He knew that. But then, he'd always known that. He had been the most powerful sorcerer the land had ever seen, and he was not too cowardly to admit now that he'd used that in many ways that he probably should not have. His acerbic attitude and unapologetic mockery of those around him had only escaladed the more they showed their contempt. He had not worried then; the other sorcerers of the city were jealous children, the soldiers suspicious war-fanatics, and the members of the Council an overly-controlling combination of both. They didn't trust him because he was noisy, that was all. It was really rather fun, watching them watch him.

Perhaps if he hadn't been so carefree and proud and _stupid_, they might have known better. Perhaps they would have trusted him more when he came to them for help. Perhaps they would have realized that he wasn't an obnoxious and elegant sorcerer with a lot of sharp arrows, but that he had no bow with which to shoot his metaphorical arrows—that is, no temper, no greed, no ounce of _real _evil within him. Perhaps they wouldn't have despised him, or feared him, or whichever. Perhaps the legend would have ended differently.

All of that to say, when he died—had his soul ripped out of him in agony, held between worlds to watch as his flesh was burned off his bones and his skull was carved into with magical tools so it could house him forevermore—nobody in the courtyard or in the castle or in the city wept for him. Maybe someone had, later, in the classroom where he'd taught or in the orphanages where he'd secretly visited with gold, but he never assumed that. He'd never been offered sympathy afterward.

That was the first time. The second time he died, someone did cry.

The old world of Hrothbert of Bainbridge would never cease to haunt him, he thought even as he listened (or didn't bother listening) to Justin as he spelled out his dastardly ways in true textbook-villain style. This was the first time in almost a thousand years he had been alive and free of his skull, and the first thing he had done was perform exactly the same Black spell that had condemned him in the first place. If he had time to think about it, he might wonder at what point he'd gone _completely_ insane.

As it was, however, Justin finally stepped into the right position and unwittingly stayed there long enough for Hrothbert—Bob, he was _Bob_ now—to summon up his energy once more. He recalled saying something (probably witty since he was rather known for it, at least to the few who knew him), and then he was overwhelmed with an agony that rivaled how it felt when he was dying the first time. Only this time, it didn't really hurt quite as badly, because he wasn't being held down on his knees and forcibly drained of life; he was standing, tall, strong, and willing, not surrendering but _sacrificing_ his life for something actually worthwhile—something that _mattered_.

The familiar voice was shouting somewhere past the blinding light, commanding him to "_let go! Bob, let go!"_ He would have liked to remind Harry that he wasn't compelled to obey unless he was dead and bound to the skull, but that would have been a bit pointless, considering.

He did _not_ let go, not until he felt the staff's power disconnect entirely from what had been the life force of Justin Morningway but was now nothing but a few blue sparks of magic lingering in the air. He felt himself falling, the morgue spinning weirdly, but he never hit the cold tile floor. Someone caught him and cushioned the fall with warm arms.

Dark, haunted, childlike eyes gazed down into his own.

"Is that—is that bastard gone?" He barely managed to keep himself from convulsing as a strange aftershock of pain and magic surged through his entire body.

"Yeah, he's gone," Harry said, quickly, as though it was no longer important. "I thought you'd—"

"I would _never_ betray you, Harry," he cut into the thought without hesitation, because if in a hundred thousand years the world fell apart around him and left him in the uncertainty of darkness for the rest of his soul's existence, he would still remember this as one of the few real truths he knew.

At the simple truth of the words, Harry clutched him that much tighter in his arms. Bob had had ten centuries to imagine what he would do if he could actually feel the world again, but somehow all those (sometimes ridiculously sappy) daydreams didn't truly compare with this. Harry was strong and warm and gentle, exactly how he looked, and yes, it wasn't exactly how Bob might have pictured this moment, but if he had to die as soon as he lived, he could not think of a better way to go.

He had to admit to himself that he really did love this disturbed boy an absurd amount.

That's when he saw it…Harry, so obviously torn, overwhelmed at knowing that there was someone—anyone—so loyal to him, and unable to bear knowing this wonderful loyalty was what was taking that one person away. He was smiling, wanting to convey his pure gratitude at what Bob had done for him, but even as he was, that spark of stubborn hope was slowly ebbing away from those near-black eyes.

There were tears there now, waiting to be shed when Bob was gone. Harry was crying for him.

The muscles of Harry's arm under his fingers were tense where he returned the man's hold with all the strength he could muster, and he had the suspicion that this wasn't all going to turn out the way his friend thought, but he couldn't be sure, so he had to say it. Harry had to understand why he did this; he could not go and leave the man with the same questions and doubts that Winifred had left him.

"I had to come this far," he said hastily, as he felt the icy Black magic curling around his heart, "in order to keep him dead. Him and his double…it was…he would keep coming back."

It was becoming hard to focus, so he kept his attention on Harry's dark eyes. He saw there same kind mercy that had always characterized him as a child. Harry would never blame him for this. Of course he wouldn't. Harry was gentle, understanding. He trusted Bob. He was probably the first who ever had.

Bob couldn't keep himself from jolting when another wave of pain sliced along his veins.

"It's okay, it's okay, Bob." A hand moved up to grip his hair, to steady him. "You're gonna be okay, you're gonna be okay."

He chuckled quietly, not at the nonsense of the words, but at how good they made him feel anyway.

"If by 'okay' you mean dead, then, yes," he told him, and it was so very hard to keep his eyes open now; the Black magic was seeping into his heart.

He barely heard the last plea, so soft and hopeless, as he forced his eyes to stay open for just another moment longer, but hear it he did, and he would never forget it.

"Please don't die on me, Bob."

And there it was. Harry's handsome face crumpled as the first tear fell. It landed on his collar. Then he was gone.

"That is _really_ touching." It was only a half-joke, and he simply couldn't resist, as he returned in the next instant to be standing a few feet away, the warmth of his living body replaced with the sensation of reattachment to that damned skull.

It wasn't surprising, of course. He'd sort of known it was coming as soon as Justin managed the spell to bring him back. It wasn't even startling enough to pull a tolerant sigh out of him.

Harry, his arms abruptly empty of any dead self-sacrificing necromancers, stumbled with truly ghastly non-elegance to his feet, where he staggered a little more and wiped at his eyes with a dawning half-grin of realization.

"Bob, that's not fair," he accused with no real heat whatsoever, his smile whole and real, the spark returned to his eyes with full intensity, "you know that."

He smiled at the childlikeness that shone through despite anything Harry endured. How he loved him.

"Once cursed, always cursed," he reiterated what he'd known for so long, passing a hand through the skull on the tabletop, "my soul, forever ensnared, forbidden to move on."

Harry kept on smiling, the frankly depressing words meaning something entirely different to him than they might to anyone else listening, his gaze falling to the skull as he calmed himself with them.

"I guess I can live with that."

"Yes, I thought you might," Bob agreed, and Harry chuckled, quietly.

The younger man moved then to pick up the skull, cradling it with all carefulness one might use when holding a fragile treasure, and Bob was tugged along out the door by his wrists as he had been for the past thousand years, but for one of the few times, he didn't really mind. He could still see Harry's fingers trembling, so he walked alongside him instead of grudgingly trailing behind, and said things to make him laugh on the way home so that he would not start thinking about his uncle anymore.

It was true that there had been no tears the first time, but only the deafening roar of accusations and the cold stare of an executing sorceress. Hrothbert had seen so many people, communicated with them, affected them in his prestigious position, but not one had even pled for mercy on his behalf; now, here, Bob was unknown, unable to affect anything or anyone, a shadow stuck within a tiny radius of an enormous world…with only one, singular person who even bothered remembering his existence. And that one person had cried for him.

Of course Bob would never say so, but it almost made Hrothbert's death worth it.

**END**

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(1) In the show, there was never any real explanation as to what actually happened. All I know as canon is that Winifred died and Bob used black magic to murder someone in order to bring her back (thereby condemning himself), but I have a (rather imaginative) idea as to how it all went down, which I may explain someday.

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_I just absolutely love the sarcastic language I get to use when writing from Bob's POV! If there are any fans still out there reading this, let me know if you request any fics; I wouldn't be opposed to writing more for this fandom._


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